


Windswept.

by rodrigraphics



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Gen, M/M, Post-Game(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-24
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2019-03-08 22:16:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13467690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rodrigraphics/pseuds/rodrigraphics
Summary: A short recollection, of Butch's time after the purifier has been started.





	Windswept.

**Author's Note:**

> written from Butch's p.o.v obviously.
> 
> i love being miserable. will probably update sporadically. it'll be short. thanks for reading

He couldn’t recall the time, late afternoon he was sure. At least from what he could tell from how the sunlight entered through cracks in the metal. It was a moment of loss, he felt. His pipboy screen smashed to bits from a ricochet off a bullet, though it was obviously the better choice of fate, rather than his body be hit by it. He couldn’t even recall the situation where it happened. Days seemed to blur by, maybe because he had no way to check time at all. It had become obsolete, in his loss. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not yet. There was still Andrés’ pipboy after all, and he could ask for the time, if he so much implored.

A gasp came from the bathroom, haggard yet soft in defeat.   
He walked over, kicking the door lightly. Waiting.

Only a moment or two before the rickety doorknob twisted. A slight struggle as the hand on the other side, doing the work, had to restart two times before having enough strength to open the door.   
And a tin bucket full of discolored, slightly translucent liquid, was gently nudged out. Before the door shut again.

He was accustomed to this entire dance set already. He didn’t even notice the smell anymore. Second hand nature, to calmly pick it up and take it down to Doc Church’s for any possible tests, or just to throw it in with whatever slop they fed the brahmin. Not like it mattered.

His routine was already laid out in his head, as he left the Doc’s house. To hand the bucket of grime to Wadsworth to rinse it out, and wait again for the next one. And spend that waiting, doing whatever to pass the time. If he could recall how time worked exactly. He had read all their collected issues of Grognak twenty times over since the coma. He was so sick, of that scantily clad muscle man.

Yet when he opened the door ; Andrés sat on the couch, biting on his tongue in focus, as he carefully tried to angle a needle to enter his vein.   
A flare of adrenaline flew threw his bloodstream, as he threw the bucket to the side, and stomped over to yank Andrés’ wrist away. 

“How many fucking times have I told you, to wait for me to come do it. Y’can’t do this shit by yourself—just stab yourself more than anything stupid. Can hardly open a fucking door and you think you can do this shit ?” He gingerly took the catheter needle from Andrés’ fingers, mumbling frustrations under his breath.

Andrés sighed as he extended his left arm out on the couch rest. His eyes, dark and sunken, looked in the opposite direction ; as Butch felt for a sizeable vein with a finger. He’d gotten used to this to, relatively quickly, maybe because he spent so much time in the infirmary at The Citadel. And forced himself to learn how to do it quickly, out of selflessness, no, ease of mind. So he didn’t have to hear Andrés bitch and moan over how the needle hurt. But maybe Andrés had gotten tired of himself too, because as the needle pushed in, Butch just saw the lightest flinch in his face. He watched the radaway flow down the tube gently, thinking for a moment of the sting that would be felt as it entered the bloodstream. But Andrés was still quiet.

His knees cracked as he stood up, though neither winced at the fact, “do you feel like you’ll be able to hold anything down ?”  
The body that sinked into the couch still stared off into nothing, eyebrows furrowed so slightly, with a pout to pair along with it. Almost unbearable to not be able to take his eyes away.   
A snap of the fingers was directed at him. “Houston to fucking astronaut, are you listening ?”

“I just want water thanks.”

He held his hand out towards the back, waiting for Wadsworth to pass him one. A minute passed before he got impatient, and looked back to yell at Wadsworth only to see him shut down to charge. He felt stupid just for a moment, that was enough time he needed.

The time spent together felt awkward, even more than when they were partnered up for projects in Brotch’s class.  
Months away from each other, not physically, but the time wasted away waiting had caused that rift of the same nature.   
Andrés would slightly gag in a quiet moment, and he would panic before cupping his hands together ready to catch anything that could spill out. But the moment never came. And they continued to silently listen to the radio. He’d watch the radaway drain away into the IV, whether it was out of boredom or amateur doctorly duties, he didn’t know. 

As the sun dipped down and everything around them became shrouded in darkness, the IV was removed with the help of Andrés’ pipboy light. A quick glance after they were done, made him realize that the month of July had begun. It was only The Third, a Wednesday, but the recognition of time made him anxious. 

“Your birthday’s soon.” He said as he held out his hand to help Andrés to his feet.

Andrés’ grip was weak, but he heaved himself up with a soft grunt. “Yeah...sure.”

With each step they took up the stairs, creaking under their weight together, he held a firm grip on Andrés’ side. Yet it felt so natural in the moment. “Twenty’s not so bad. Even number. It ain’t no lucky twelve but...A fresh start at least. Hasn’t been bad to me so far.”

Andrés croaked an “ugh” out, as they reached the second floor.

“Don’t moan about it now when your bed is less than 20 feet away.”

“Our bed.”

He didn’t know what to say to that.


End file.
